


look back in anger

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Rated for swearing, Time Travel, hints of Beville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carra goes to sleep in his comfortable bed in his London apartment, contently retired.</p><p>He wakes up to his mother yelling that he'll be late for practice.</p><p>or, The One Where Carra Travels Back In Time (Now With Added Angst!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	look back in anger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Imkerin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [蓦然回首(look back in anger)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953440) by [natalia_lip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalia_lip/pseuds/natalia_lip)



> In the interest of full disclosure, I love time travel fics more than anything else on the entire planet. And I've always wanted to write one, so here we are.
> 
> Many thanks to Kelly and Anna for being on-hand to explain all things British, and to Rach for being the Gary Neville expert that wikipedia could never be.
> 
> Title is from Oasis's "Don't Look Back In Anger"
> 
> Dear giftee, I hope you enjoy this and that it's what you hoped for when you just barely mentioned it in your prompt. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to write this!
> 
> This fic was written for the Carraville Exchange 2016.

  
  


 

Carra wakes up to birdsong. It’s pierces through his pounding headache and he blinks open his eyes, trained unseeing at the ceiling. For a long moment, he waits for reality to re-assert itself, waits for the dab, postered walls of his childhood bedroom to clear themselves into his sleek modern apartment.

  


They don’t. He blinks again. His knees don’t hurt.

  


A loose spring from the mattress digs into his back. That hurts. He stretches out his arm and grasps thin air. The bed is smaller than he remembers it being. There’s not even room for another person.

  


His first thought is ‘must have been some party last night,’ his second is ‘whose place is this?’, third ‘why are my fingers so small?’, fourth ‘I’m getting too old for this’.

  


“Jamie, get up ye lazy bastard!” His mum. That’s his mum’s voice, coming through the thin plaster walls of the house he’s starting to recognize.

  


There’s the edge of what he recognizes as an Everton kit peeking out his closet and the sight of it startles him into movement, and right off the side of the bed, face planting into a pair of ratty old sneakers.

  


“Jamie! You’ll be late for practice!”

  


His hands are smaller, his feet are smaller, everything has shrunk overnight and he rises on wobbly knees to walk towards the mirror that’s hung on the wardrobe.

  


Carra catches sight of his face in the mirror and squeezes his eyes shut immediately. It can’t be right, what he sees. His face doesn’t have a wrinkle in sight, just some acne and a pair of terrified green eyes.

  


“Jamie!”

  


He’s going to be late. His mind hasn’t quite caught up to where he’s even going, the teenager in it increasingly overridden by the adult who’s screaming in fear. He reaches for a pair of jeans automatically (the tattered kind that’ll look modern in about ten years and _how does he know that?)_ and he overreaches, the cloth falling onto the floor with a thump.

  


His body feels strange, alien, the skin stretched over bones that are too sharp, too fragile to be his. There’s a few bruises on his shin, and nothing else, no puckered up scars and discolored skin from tackles gone wrong, of broken bones forced to heal too quick.

  


No mark, no map, no suffering to tell him who he’s supposed to be.

  


He finally makes his way down to the kitchen and his mum’s angry expression instantly melts into worry when she catches sight of him. From there, it’s a simple few steps to throw his arms around her in a hug, to press the pane of his unwrinkled forehead into his shoulder. He’s taller than her, but not tall enough to tower over her, not tall enough.

  


His mum smells like the cheap flowery perfume she wore before he brought her the first bag from Chanel. He finds that he’s missed it.

  


He trembles so hard in her arms that his teeth chatter with the force of it.

  


“Oh, Jamie,” she says, gently, like she’s talking to the neighbour's easily spooked dog, “I knew you were nervous for your debut, but I had no idea it was this bad.”

  


“My debut?” he croaks out, words barely registering.

  


“Yes, you’re in the squad tonight, against Middlesbrough. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

  


Carra shakes his head blankly, sitting heavily in the kitchen chair.

  


“Where’s pa and the lads?” he asks. There’s a newspaper on the table, and he unfurls it, noting the date with a detached kind of shock.

  


“Your pa’s at work and your brothers are at school already,” she says , placing a plate of toast in front of him. “Now eat, boy. The gaffer keeps telling you, you’re too skinny.”

  


Carra eats mechanically, trying to line up the events from his memories (hallucinations?). It’s difficult. He hadn’t done a lot of thinking at this age.

  


He walks to training, tries to use the 45 minutes to clear his head, but it backfires when all he keeps noticing is all the shops that had been boarded off in the future. His bag digs painfully in his side, packed with his spare kit and training gear, his only pair of cleats, painstakingly cleaned. It’s heavy and he has to switch hands halfway through the walk, feeling betrayed by his arm muscles.

  


He almost gets lost on his way to the training ground, but in his defense, they’ve changed the layout since he’s last been there (yesterday?).

  


McManaman is holding court in the dressing room when he comes in, his bronze curls untouched by Madrid’s bleaching sun. Fowler leans forward to tell a joke, green eyes vivid above a full smirking mouth, and El Macca laughs. Except he’s not El Macca yet, just Steve McManaman if that wasn’t intimidating enough. He tucks away a stray curl and Carra’s body takes the opportunity to remind him of the crush he’d had on him at this age. It’s unbelievably embarrassing.

  


Carra keeps to himself throughout training and on the bus to Middlesbrough, and hopes the others think it’s just because of his nerves. He stares out the window instead, tries not to think and desperately misses the distraction of his smartphone.

  


In the Middlesbrough away locker room, his number is set up next to the skipper’s, a strategic decision that’s meant to calm the youngest player’s nerves. Carra can’t remember when they abandoned the practice. He doesn’t feel nervous. Just numb.

  


John Barnes is already there when he arrives, halfway into his kit. He grins at Carra when their gazes meet.

  


“Alright there, Carragher?” he asks and Carra can’t help it; he smiles back. There’s something very reassuring about John Barnes.

  


“Alright, boss, “ he answers, consciously moderating his voice the way he’d been taught in diction classes he hasn’t yet attended. “Just a touch of nerves. You know how it is.”

  


Barnes laughs and claps him on the back.

  


“Don’t worry,” he says, “you’ll do fine. If you let one in, we’ll just score two to make up for it.”

  


And Carra knows it doesn’t work like that, is past the point where this is a boast he’d be willing to believe, has spent too many matches skidding in the mud, barely hanging onto a one point lead hoping that the clock runs out before the opposition takes a corner he doesn’t have the strength to afford. But he smiles back at Barnes anyway, reassured in the way he reminds him of another man who’d worn an armband like he’d been born for it.

  


They chat a bit more as they get changed.

  


Carra, racing mind temporarily quiet, asks him some questions about the game that he’s always been too star-struck to ask (and when he finally wasn’t, the answers wouldn’t have helped him anyway). If Barnes is surprised by his suddenly improved diction and curiosity, he doesn’t say.

  


The warm up goes alright, for the most part. He keeps overreaching, courting injury with stretching muscles he hasn’t actually used properly before. He finds himself instinctively wanting to return to a more familiar position in central defence that isn’t his anymore, but he’s got the pace he hasn’t had in decades to twist back in time.

  


It’s a bit confusing, with a part of his mind focused on the game with 700 games experience his body never played in and the other half tracking movement with a pundt’s eyes, noting spaces, taking stock of mistakes.

  


Thankfully, at least, the ball falls familiar at his feet, the plastic surface the same in a thousand dreams and a thousand nightmares.

  


He’s still trying to figure out which one he’s living right now.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Jamie Carragher makes his debut for Liverpool football club on January 8th, 1997, as a substitute for Rob Jones, 75 minutes into a 2–1 defeat. It’s his 738th appearance, but no one knows that but him.

  


He resents it.

  


The magic that should be there on his debut; the nerves and the agony and the excitement, that’s all been ripped away from him violently, and for what? For whose purpose?

  


It’s infuriating if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t think at all, because he’s got to race Gascoigne down the flank to prevent a goalscoring opportunity instead.

  


The next day he’s back to training with the reserves.

  


“Carra!” he hears behind him, already automatically turning to the familiar voice, “Congrats on your debut, lad!”

  


And there’s Steven Gerrard, his kit too big on him and his smile achingly familiar.

  


It hits Carra then. Anything else could be dismissed as a daydream or as a symptom of some sort of encroaching madness, but not this, not Stevie, his shoulders free of burden and his skinny legs tapping a pattern against the grass.

  


This Stevie is definitely real, down to the wrinkles that form on his forehead when he sees Carra swaying on his feet.

  


“Carra? You okay?”

  


“Yeah, sure,” Carra says faintly, “must be sunstroke or something.”

  


Stevie takes one doubtful look at the overcast Liverpool sky and takes him to the doctor immediately.

  
  


*

  
  


It’s a relief, taking the first few steps onto the Anfield pitch and discovering that this, at least, has lost none of its magic.

  


He still has this, in the soft green grass giving way beneath his cleats, the red clinging to his skin and the hundred voices of the Kop raised in song. Nothing ever came close to feeling like this.

  


The date is January 18th, 1997, and he’s making his debut at Anfield, against Aston Villa.

  


It goes like last time. He’s listed as the starting center-back, then Kvarme takes his spot instead, but Berger falls ill and they find themselves short a central midfielder, so Carra steps in. He exchanges a shaky grin with Jamie Redknapp, his partner for the evening and settles into position.

  


He’s nervous, but he gets booked after what feels like twenty seconds, clattering into Townsend, and curiously that calms him down. Stevie would banter him about it, say that it’s the familiarity, but Stevie’s watching in the stands on Carra’s guest ticket and can’t say much of anything.

  


But he keeps his head down and keeps playing, consciously playing a holding midfield role, feeding the ball forward to Redknapp and McManaman. The 50th minute comes around. It’s their corner and Carra pushes forward in front of goal, sees the ball coming as if in slow motion.

  


It’s a wonderful header and his teammates pile on him, elated. The Kop sings louder. They score two more by the end of the match.

  


The referee blows the whistle and Carra doubles over, his body unused to the pace and the exhaustion of playing a full match in the senior team.

  


Someone claps him on the back and he straightens up, turns towards the celebrating Kop and raises his hands to applaud them.

  


He watches their faces all in in a blur, and they seem to him in his exhaustion rather like flightless birds, teeming together, raising into the sky, their dark silhouettes singing. He blinks the sweat out of his eyes to see their faces; middle aged men and women with children, old men with their pipes and young boys with ruddy cheeks whose voices will grow hoarse by tomorrow.

  


He applauds them, because they don’t know it yet, but they’re his, every single one of them, and he’s theirs, if only by the virtue of wearing a crest they’ve chosen to stake their happiness on.

  


He watches them, knowing that the next twenty years or so will be about him reaffirming the trust placed in him and the honor of the badge layered over his heart like a brand.

  


For the first time in a while since he woke displaced that January morning, he thinks things might be alright.

  
  


*

  
  


Life goes on.

  


Carra plays reserves matches, yells back and forth with Stevie on the breaks, about football and tactics and the players they rate highly. The only difference is that he wins more arguments now, not that they really disagree on anything significant.

  


Most of the games still turn out the same, because it’s in the nature of football matches that they don’t usually depend on one person.

  


(Unless that person is Stevie, who walks with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and turns the tides of fate through sheer force of belief, or maybe stubbornness.

  


But, and he has to keep reminding himself of that, this is not that Stevie yet. This one still runs like he’s got eternity between the spikes of his cleats and laughs with his head thrown back, his throat exposed, like he doesn’t realize someone might seize him by it.

  


This isn’t his Stevie, not really, but that’s okay. Because there isn’t an universe in which Jamie Carragher doesn’t love Steven Gerrard with every fiber of his boney Scouse frame and in the end that’s the only thing that matters.)

  


“Carra! You’re daydreaming again! C’mon!”

  


Carra shakes the cobwebs from his mind and starts running towards where Stevie’s calling him over. They go to evening school after trainings now. Carra’s forcing him to learn Spanish.

  
  


*

  
  


The crux of the matter is that he’s basically lost everything, or close to it (he’s always got Stevie).

  


He’s lost a playing career built through sweat and blood, a history and a legacy, and it stings, all that hard work in vain, leaving him with a too frail body and a head full of games he might not get to play in.

  


He’s lost his wife and his beautiful kids. He thinks about Nicola sometimes, growing up two streets from his, and feels lonely. He thinks he almost saw her once, the trailing end of her long blonde hair or maybe the hint of a familiar perfume. He tries not to think about his kids at all.

  


(That’s a lie - he thinks about them every day, every moment he breathes. He’s never been much of a crier, but these days he wakes up with his pillow wet more often than not.)

  


He’s maybe a little quieter this time around, just a tad on the serious side, a peacemaker instead of the hothead. Mostly. You can try to temper the Scouser, but you can’t take the temper out of him.

  


He drops friendships he knows would have fallen on their own, and forms new ones, like the one with the local librarian, who’s a Liverpool fan and absolutely thrilled to order him the third time travel science fiction novel in as many months.

  


Carra does his research, reads book after book, trying to find a situation like his and a possible solution.

  


The only thing he’s been able to find about it is that the people who time travel usually have something unfinished they had to fix, but the instructions are never clearer than that. Now, he’s got plenty of regrets, the eight own goals for a start (and he’s definitely going to do his best to rectify that statistic), but they hardly seem to be worth disturbing the time-space continuum for.

  


In the end, one thing keeps sticking in his head. He’s heard it a lot during the years, during his testimonial and Stevie’s. “Such a great player,” they said, “shame he’s never won the league.”

  


So, he concludes, this must be it. He’ll make sure Liverpool win the league. Hell, he’ll make sure they win it a few times, snatch it right from those Mancs’ dirty paws. And then maybe, he’ll wake up in the morning and realize it’s all been an awful dream.

  
  


*

  
  


Because, here’s the thing: he’s never been someone who whined about his lot in life. Instead, he went out and did something about it. And if his legacy was taken from him, then he’ll just have to carve himself a new one, write his name in blood and sweat on Anfield’s grass over and over again, just to make sure it sticks.

  
  


*

  
  


This time the transition from right-back to center-back is quicker. In those first few seasons he starts in games he doesn’t remember playing and he’s valuable because of his versatility. He dips into midfield a few times, plays on the wings, but his best position by far is center-back, though Evans will rarely start him there. It’s frustrating.

  


Then he bulks up over the summer of ‘98, gains back his missing inches and catches the gaffer giving him considering looks during training. But that season goes a bit sideways, and Evans leaves in November and leaves Houllier in charge.

  


Houllier likes him and the feeling is mutual. Carra plays in center-back more and more often and it’s a relief, to settle in for the long haul. He doesn’t know what convinces the manager to let him play there. Maybe it’s the way he howls at Owen to get back and track a runner, and has him actually obey, or the numerous backbreaking tackles he makes to preserve their latest dirty draw.

  


At 21, he’s probably not the youngest starting center-back in the league, but just about.

  


Another significant thing happens in 1998 - Stevie makes his senior team debut. Carra watches him shake in his boots with a grin, howls at him across the pitch to ‘get his shit together’ and watches the familiar cadence of his shouting settle his nerves.

  
  


*

  
  


The summer of ‘00, he gets called into Houllier’s office. It’s noteworthy, because he doesn’t remember it happening the first time around, which makes him nervous.

  


There are papers on the desk in front of him, contracts by the looks of them. The gaffer’s been busy this transfer season. Carra watches him as he takes a sip from his cuppa (surprisingly fond of afternoon tea for a Frenchman), scanning the papers instead of looking at Carra.

  


“We’ve received a number of offers for you, Jamie,” he finally says, “quite lucrative ones.” He picks up the papers and throws down the stacks one by one. “Newcastle,” thud, “Southampton,” thud, “Chelsea. You can take your pick.”

  


The office’s air conditioning must be turned all the way up to high because it feels suddenly very cold.

  


“I’m not going,” Carra says, flushes, hotly embarrassed by how faint his voice sounds. He swallows. Houllier looks at him expectantly.

  


“I’m not going,” he says again.

  


“Are you certain? They are good offers. Guaranteed playing time. More money than I can offer you. You aren’t tempted at all?”

  


Carra doesn’t look down at the papers. There’s a portrait of Bill Shankly mounted on the wall, standing next to a Liverbird statue. He looks at that instead.

  


“I’m not looking at any offers. I want to stay.”

  


“I can’t guarantee you playing time.”

  


“I’ll fight for it.” He looks away from the pictured gaffer to watch the real one. Something of his distress must show on his face, because Houllier’s expression turns placating.

  


“Alright, Jamie,” he says, “sit down, it’s alright.” Carra doesn’t remember standing up but there he is, hands clenched into fists, white-knuckled. “Have some tea, we’ll figure it out.”

  


Carra folds back into the chair.

 

In the end, he stays.

  
  


*

  
  


His England call-up comes earlier than he remembers it. It’s probably not unusual - he’s playing more and playing well.

  


So he walks into the England training camp at 19, instead of 21, tucked under Redknapp’s protective arm. He’s curiously apathetic towards the whole situation. He’s certain that he’ll spend the whole time on the bench, because he doesn’t think he’s actually ready to play on this level yet and he’s got no idea what the coach is thinking, calling him up for world cup qualifiers.

  


It feels like should be star-struck by the room of footballers he used to idolize as a teenager, but he isn’t. For the most part these are all men he’s played with or against, and he’s discussed their style of play so many times he feels like he knows them inside out anyway.

  


Which is why he supposes it’s ironic that he almost runs smack dab into Gary Neville.

  


He’s been peripherally aware of Neville all this time and on some level he’s known that there was no way for things to have stayed the same between them, but he’s still watches with something akin to betrayal as Gary’s features twist into a contemptuous sneer.

 

He’s all wiry muscle layered over hollow bones, barely leashed violence. And it’s startling, because Gary’d been so effortlessly controlled in the future, the savagery boiling under his skin softened by a facade of good humor and whip-sharp competency.

  


It used to drive him crazy, as much as he found himself responding to it, mellowing out from old wounds into weary scars and into something that was almost friendship, or better yet, respect.

  


But, searching the face in front of him for late night arguments and reluctant agreement, he finds nothing, just anger and a hint of violence.

  
  


The boy in him, the one that’s used to walking down the streets of Merseyside in the dark, unfurls within his bones to bare his teeth.

  


“What are you looking at, Scouser?” Gary spits out, and for the first time since their eyes met, Carra becomes aware of the younger Neville hovering worriedly behind his brother, of Scholes tense beside him, and Beckham with the air of a lazy cat and hands clenched into fists. Redknapp is murmuring something in his ear, something that’s supposed to be calming, but he just shakes his head in response.

  


“Nothing much,” he says, tilting his head to the side and watching Gary’s rage slowly simmer, “just struck by how much of a wanker you are.”

  


That’s all it takes for Gary to lunge forward (he’s always been easy to provoke, that Carra remembers, especially when he felt like things were out of his control). He’s held back by several pairs of hands as Carra watches dispassionately, lets the edges of a smirk soften his mouth.

  


Hoddle walks in with his group of assistants and Gary’s snarl melts away in an instant, replaced with a neutral expression and he turns to walk away.

  


“Don’t provoke him,” Redknapp hisses into his ear when he pulls him away, but Robbie grins at him when he comes over and pats him on the back. Carra just shrugs in reply, quietly delighted at the way his heart beats just a little bit faster, his blood rushing in his ears.

  


He catches Gary’s gaze across the room and winks, gets another sneer in return before the other man turns away.

  
  


*

  
  


Unfortunately, someone hadn’t quite gotten the memo about them feuding, or hasn’t been told that a Scouser and a Manc in the same room might be a bad idea in general.

  


So, due to a bureaucratic error, the next time they get called up, he and Gary end up as roommates.

  


Carra thinks it’s just about the most hilarious thing in the world. Gary...less so.

  


“Let’s make the rules clear here, Carragher! This is my side of the bed, and that’s yours,” Gary says, gesticulating an imaginary line between the beds. “Don’t cross the line and we’ll get along just fine.”

  


“And where do you reckon I should be taking a piss? The bathroom is on your side of the room.”

  


“There’s a potted plant outside that should be just up your alley,” Gary says nonchalantly and Carra ducks his head to hide his smirk.

  


“Yeah? How about I piss on your bed and then you can sleep on the balcony?”

  


They agree on the bathroom being neutral ground. It takes them 20 minutes.

  


Carra makes a beeline for the remote control and the channel listing and grins when he finds what he’s looking for.

  


“Do you have a hard time sleeping with the TV on?” he asks, more to spare himself the whining than any real curtesy.

  


“Why? Are you going to watch porn, because if you are then I’m definitely leaving.”

  


“No, you berk,” Carra doesn’t know if he should be insulted or amused that Gary seems to think he’s the type who’d want to watch porn with him. “BT sports is showing the Argentinian league, Boca is playing Independiente. I planned on watching it, but it’s very late.”

  


“Oh,” Gary frowns, “no, I sleep alright. Shouldn’t you be sleeping too? The coach will be mad if you’re falling asleep in training.”

  


“I’m touched by your concern-” “I’m not-” “...but I don’t need that much sleep. I stay up to watch games a lot.”

  


“Fine. Who put you in charge of the TV anyway?”

  


“Technically, it’s on my side of the room, so you did. But really, are you going to pretend you wouldn’t have put football on anyway?”

  


Gary’s got no reply to that and Carra turns on the TV, finds a rerun of a Turkish league match (he’s watched it before, knows it’s a good one), then nonchalantly throws his pants off to change. Gary grumbles about his butt blocking the TV so he turns around to flash him a smirk (and other bits), but for the most part nothing significant happens.

  


It’s strange, because it’s such a difference from the last time he saw Gary. Sure, the anger is still there, but he’s got a feeling that it always is at this age (he was probably the same last time round), but there’s also more control, significant in the way Gary folds all his shirts into sharp corners and re-tucks the bed sheets.

 

Maybe last time he just caught him on a bad day. Maybe Gary’s worried about the prospect of a fight (he should be, Carra’d fight dirty). Whatever it is, the silence is almost pleasant.

  


Especially when Gary conks out sometime round 9.30, leaving Carra alone with his thoughts.

  
  


*

  
  


The insomnia is something he’s brought with him from before.

  


It started some two years before he retired, kept awake nightly by the aches and pains from his limbs, and he got into the habit of sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night, shuffling down to the living room.

  


Five hundred channels on his TV and there was always some sort of football on. His wife would find him in the mornings on the couch where he’d nodded off in the middle of an Aston Villa vs Leeds United match from ‘93, and she’d just sigh and cover him with a blanket.

  


He hasn’t got a wife now, but he’s got satellite TV he pays from his pocket, and a family of heavy sleepers (and in a few months, contract willing, he’ll have a flat of his own).

  


And right now, he’s got a Gary Neville, who’s determinately snoring over the commentator. It’s fine because Carra only knows a little Spanish, but it also keeps tugging his attention away from the match and to Gary’s sleeping figure, profile softened in sleep, the blue light from the TV drawing shadows in the contours of his face.  


 

*

  
  


“How was the game yesterday?”

  


Carra can admit to being a little surprised at how amiable Gary’s being. He’s not been stabbed in his sleep at least, and this is the second time Gary’s initiated conversation between them.

  


“Alright. Boca won, 2:1. Independiente could have equalized but Boca has the better keeper,” he replies nonchalantly, still wrapped up in his nest of sheets. Gary’s already fully dressed and ready, even though it’s barely gone 7 o’clock, and by the looks of things has been up for a while.

  


“Wait, so you actually watched it?”

  


“I did. Which you would know if you didn’t have a sleeping schedule of a preschool child.”

  


“Well, I’m going to be well rested today in training, unlike you and the grocery bags under your eyes. You’ll have to work harder to take my position away from me.”

  


“Oh, is that how it is? You feel threatened?”

  


“I don’t feel threatened. Especially not by you, you Scouse dick.”

  


“I don’t actually like playing full-back that much. I just do it because the gaffer tells me to. But I like how you’ve already got pet names for me. So forward of you, Gary.”

  


“Since when do you call me Gary?”

  


“Since you started talking about my dick.”

  


Gary’s banter needs work. But he does have a pretty blush.

 

The weird thing is that it doesn’t just end there, with Carra hiding his smug smirk into the pillow, and Gary spluttering and red-faced. For some reason, Gary keeps on initiating conversation.

  


“Why do you hate playing full-back?” he asks, while Carra rifles through his suitcase for a change of clothes.

  


“What other leagues do you follow?” when Carra comes out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder.

  


“Whatever I can get, really. I just like football a lot.”

  


“The Spanish league?”

  


“Yeah, I like Barcelona. Do you watch it?”

  


“Not often.” They’ve managed to navigate their way to the door and out it without any elbowing happening. It’s still barely 7.30, so chances are they’ll been one of the earlier ones at breakfast.

  


“You might like Valencia.” Carra says on impulse, grinning innocently at Gary’s surprised expression.

  


They carry on chatting as they get into the elevators and down to the breakfast room, where they pause at the doors, suddenly awkward.

  


“You know, I think they’ll all be shocked we haven’t killed each other,” Carra offers into the sudden silence.

  


“Yeah, I’m not entirely certain why we haven’t,” says Gary, shaking his head, “but, uh, I think us sitting together at breakfast might be a bit too much for them.”

  


“If I didn’t know any better, roomie, I’d think you were embarrassed to be seen with me,” Carra says, rolling his eyes, and pushes open the door to the dining room. He finds a sunny patch at a table, and systematically demolishes his breakfast while waiting for the other Scousers to make their way down to breakfast.

  


He doesn’t watch Gary and his Weetabix sit down against a bleary eyed Scholes from the corner of his eye. Not at all.

  
  


*

  
  


The landline in their house rings, shrilly disturbing Carra’s peaceful evening watching football. Luckily, he’s the closest to the phone, which means he’s the one to answer, not Paul, or worse yet, his dad.

  


“Okay, I’ll bite. Why am I watching Valencia?” Gary Neville’s voice comes from the receiver and Carra actually moves it from his ear to stare at it for a full thirty seconds, unable to believe the situation. “Carragher? Hello?”

  


“Yeah, I’m here,” Carra says, leaning against the counter. The phone is in the kitchen, and if he leans to the right he can see the game on the screen in the living room. Real Madrid is playing Valencia. “I just...how did you even get this number?”

  


“I called your club, said I was going to recruit you for Manchester United.”

  


Carra bursts out in incredulous laughter. Onscreen, a Valencia forward skips past two defenders and scores.

  


“And they believed that? And gave you the number?”

  


“No, of course not. Why would we need you when we have Denis Irwin?” Gary says, and Carra has to curl in on himself to muffle his laughter. “I looked at the phonebook.”

  


“You found me in the phonebook?”

  


“Yes. Is that not what people do?” Gary sounds affronted, and at this point Carra’s got tears running down his cheeks, he’s trying so hard to hold back his laughter.

  


They stay up talking, commentating the match and the current Premier League standings. Gary cusses him out a few times, but that’s all par for course, and it’s not like Carra doesn’t return the favor in full.

  


He feels curiously light after he puts the phone down, Gary’s muttered ‘see you in a few weeks, dickhead’ still ringing in his ears.

  


It’s the echo of a friendship he never thought he’d get back, and this time he hasn’t even had to work that hard for it.

  
  


*

  
  


The surprising part is, Gary keeps calling. Mostly when there’s La Liga matches on, or sometimes where there’s some other football he knows Carra will be watching. At first all they talk about is football, relishing in rehashing a mutual obsession with someone who won’t get bored after five minutes of discussion of England’s tactics in the ‘84 World Cup.

  


But slowly, personal details start filtering through the airwaves (usually when they’re watching some of the evening games and Gary’s turned sleepy and gentler, sharp words softened by yawns). For example, Carra learns that Phil has a frog obsession that drives his older brother a bit bonkers and Old Trafford has an old ginger tabby cat that lives in its halls, and that sometimes watches them practice. He also learns a whole lot about David Beckham. And more about his relationship with Gary that he thinks Gary means to reveal.

  


He knows that Gary never calls when Becks is over, and that’s fine. Understandable, even.

  


Midway through 2000, Carra gets his own apartment. Coincidentally, this comes after one evening when Gary calls him a bit too early and Carragher senior picks up the phone instead, and needs to be poured a stiff drink immediately.

  


(“How could you do this to me, lad? First you abandon Everton and now this...this...Manc bastard!”

  


“Breathe, Pa, he’s alright.”

  


“He’s alright! Alright! Gary Fucking Neville isn’t alright!”

  


“Pa, this isn’t Romeo and Juliet, alright, take another drink.”

  


Meanwhile his brothers are howling with laughter in the corner as his mum crosses and uncrosses her arms.

  


“Well, I think he’s quite a nice lad,” she says, instantly silencing the room. “He called one day when you were out, Carra. We talked and he was perfectly friendly.”

  


Carra takes another glass from the pantry and downs a shot along with his dad.)

  
  


*

  
  


“You talked to my mum?”

  


“You were out!”

  


“What could you two possibly have talked about?”

  


“The weather for one. And she told me how to make her special mushroom sauce, it was a real hit at the club barbecue this year.”

  


“...”

  


“Carragher? Carra, what are you doing?”

  


“Drinking.”

  


“You’re not supposed to drink, you have training tomorrow!”

  
  


*

  
  


He hears about Beckham leaving on the radio in the car on the way to training. It’s July and there’s even a bit of sunshine out as they’re put through their pre-season paces. Everyone is talking about the transfer, wondering if it means that they have more chances in the league now.

  


Carra stays quiet. Thinks about Gary and his “I’m fine with him going, really. It’s fine.”, and keeps his head down.

  


He gets back to his house in the late afternoon, the sun just barely touching the horizon, painting the sky yellow and pink. The air has cooled from the heat of the day and the neighbour’s jasmine bush fills the air with a sweet scent, not unlike his mother’s old perfume.

  


Gary Neville is sitting on his doorstep.

  


Carra must make a sound, because he looks up, all deep-set red-rimmed eyes, still in his United training gear, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t been jumped when he got out of the car.

  


They stare at each other. Gary opens his mouth, then closes it again, apparently at a loss. His face is blank, but there’s traces of anguish peeking through the edge of his mouth and his nails bitten down almost raw.

  


Carra walks past him and unlocks the door, holds it open for him and waits till Gary’s thin body walks past him inside. He looks tenser than a spring.

  


Gary takes off his shoes inside and lines them up carefully (observant; Stevie never remembers) and takes the slippers without a word of complaint. They’ve got the Liverbird on them, so that in itself is worrying.

  


Carra shepherds him into the kitchen and puts on the kettle for some tea. Gary folds himself in one of the kitchen chairs and stares blankly at his hands. Carra watches from the corner of his eye as he brings them up to his face and presses the soles against his eyes.

  


He sets the tea down in front of Gary whose hands curl around it automatically, then takes a seat across from him and waits. The clock ticks in the background. Gary stares at his tea and Carra watches Gary. The sun finally sinks behind the horizon and the streetlights go on, one by one.

  


Gary takes a deep shuddering breath and breaks the silence.

  


“He left,” he says, and his voice is steady, void of inflection. “I knew he would, but I wasn’t prepared…”

  


His voice cracks, and he clamps his mouth shut.

  


“I didn’t realize…” Gary tries again, then trails off into silence, shaking his head as if in disbelief at himself. Carra can fill in the blanks himself. Suddenly, he’s absurdly grateful that Stevie didn’t announce he was leaving until after Carra had already been gone for a few years.

  


It gets dark in the kitchen, the only light from the neon above the sink. It casts Gary’s face into shadow, and it’s not until he sees his shoulders shaking that Carra realizes he’s crying.

  


He’s never seen Gary Neville cry. He’s got a feeling that not many people have.

  


Carra sits in silence, thoughts racing and hands gripping round his rapidly cooling mug, counts Gary’s hitching breaths, until they run out and there’s quiet. He can practically hear it when the self-doubt sets in.

  


“I shouldn’t have come,” Gary says abruptly, standing up. He wipes his hands furiously over his face, as if it’ll erase all traces of tears.

  


“Why did you?” Carra says, and means ‘why did you come _here_? why did you come to me?’, because it’s still not actually fully registered that Gary’s actually in his house, the address of which he doesn’t actually remember sharing.

  


“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Gary’s stepped forward into the light, and it draws attention to the dark circles under his eyes, the hint of tears still clinging to his eyelashes. He looks tired, and older than he should.

  


Carra sighs.

  


“Alright,” he says, “you might as well stay if you’re here already. Sporting vs. Benfica is on tonight, we can watch that. I think I have some Starbursts in the pantry.”

  


“Are...are you sure?” Gary still looks like a flight risk, so Carra walks over to the cupboard to pull out the half full family size pack of Starburst candy.

  


Gary lights up like a lighthouse at night.

  
  


*

  
  


Which is how he finds himself with Gary Neville on his couch, peacefully watching a game of football and stuffing his face with his candy. Outwardly, he seems fine, with practically no traces of his earlier outburst. Carra doesn’t buy it for a second. He keeps glancing at him from the corner of his eye, somewhat expecting that the Portuguese stadium will be playing the Spice Girls at halftime, setting the whole circle off again.

  


He doesn’t realize that he might be giving Gary the wrong impression until halftime, when Gary turns to him, eyes dark, leans forward and kisses him.

  


His lips are chapped and his kiss just a tad too firm, almost hungry. Their teeth clack together before Gary tilts his face for a better angle. He tastes like Starbursts.

  


For a brief moment, Carra kisses back. It’s been awhile since he’s kissed someone he’s really cared about.

  


But then the situation registers; the desperate scrape of Gary’s lips and the faint trace of salt from tears he couldn’t quite wipe away. He brings his hand up to Gary’s cheek and gently pushes him away.

  


Gary opens his eyes and blinks at him, like he’s just realized he’s there.

  


“I know you think you need this,” Carra says quietly, “but you can’t get it from me. And the one you need it from is halfway to Madrid right now.”

  


Gary flinches back as if struck.

  


“I just...I thought you...don’t you like me?” Gary seems embarrassed, almost affronted.

  


Carra watches him, the half-light from the television screen casting shadows on his face and admits to himself it’s not the first time he thought about it. But Gary’s younger now, younger than the man Carra remembers, and vulnerable. And despite what anyone might say about him, Carra isn’t enough of an asshole to take advantage of that.

  


“Watch the football, Gary,” he says gently.

  


Gary falls asleep halfway through the second half, leaning heavily into Carra’s side. It’d be a good time to lay him down gently, cover him with a blanket and let him sleep it off.

  


Instead, Carra settles him more comfortably against his side and wraps his arm around him. He’s fairly certain that it’s not a position that Gary would accept being in if he were actually awake. But he’s drooling a little now against Carra’s shirt and his soft snores are stifled by the skin of Carra’s neck, and he’s not all that uncomfortable, surprisingly.

  


So that’s how they stay. The Portuguese league gives way to Bundesliga highlights and then an old Premier League match he hasn’t seen in ages. Gary breathes against his neck and the football goes on and on, till sunrise, when, exhausted, Carra finally shuts his eyes to sleep.

  


When he wakes up, it’s to his alarm going off in the bedroom and Gary nowhere in sight.

  


The only trace of him even being there is the Starbust wrappers strewn across the floor and the blanket Carra’s been covered with.

  
  


*

  
  


Gary stops calling after that and doesn’t return his calls. All Carra gets is his voice on an answering machine, faux cheery and cryptic.

  


The next time they meet on a football field, Gary tries to punch him in the face.

  


Carra searches for something familiar in the harsh lines of his snarl, something of the man that cried on his kitchen table and who chatted about the weather with his mum, but finds nothing.

  


‘Gary’ turns back into ‘Neville’, turns back into ‘you fucking bastard’.

  


And that’s the end of that.

  
  


*

  
  


Istanbul is red.

  


Istanbul is sweat dripping into his eyes like blood, the aching in his tired knees, the bones grinding together in protest every time he picks himself up from tackle after backbreaking tackle.

  


Istanbul is Stevie, shining like a beacon. Istanbul is three down at halftime, but never feeling helpless.

  


Istanbul is Xabi Alonso’s penalty swishing into the back of the net.

  


Istanbul is in the cold steel of the trophy beneath his lips, in champagne bubbling through his bloodstream like joy, like victory. Istanbul is standing on the grass that’s never been greener and his lips bent to kiss the badge that’s been carved into his heart.

  


The greatest game of football ever played. In this universe or the next.

  
  


*

  
  


It’s August 2008 and Carra knows this season is the one.

  


He’s got Sami, and Dan and Martin at his side, an extension of his limbs, Arbeloa and Dossena on the wings. If he looks back, there’s Pepe Reina making faces at his back. He doesn’t need to look back.

  


Stevie shines, in the form of his life, with Xabi’s enigmatic smile by his side in midfield, and Fernando’s overwhelming brilliance in front. Carra watches Mascherano’s back in front of him and there’s no indication that it’ll one day shoulder a giant, but he knows they _can_. Lucas is there, blonde and blue eyed and stumbling over his English. And Yossi and Riera and Fabio. Dirk’s tireless feet and Keane’s ever present frown.

  


This is the season.

  


He scores the equalizer against Middlesbrough and when he turns to applaud the Kop, they’re already chanting his name. Because he’s theirs, as much as they are his, these boys and girls with ruddy cheeks, and children wrapped in scarves they can’t read yet, and the middle aged men waving flags.

  


They win and they draw, and they lose too, but they stay top of the table. He doesn’t score an own goal against Spurs, but they manage one all on their own. It doesn’t matter, as long as they’re top of the table.

  


They play Everton at Anfield on January 19th, exactly 13 years and a day after he first stepped on its grass. Tim Cahill has a chance in the 87th minute of the game, but Carra deflects it harmlessly into a corner.

  


The flags keep waving. Stevie leans into his side on the bus, half-asleep, and whispers “We’re gonna win the league.”

  


They don’t lose against Middlesbrough, but they don’t win either. Benitez describes their performance as ‘atrocious’, but Carra knows it could have been a lot worse.

  


The Kop keeps singing.

  


The FA cup comes and goes, and they lose against Chelsea in the Champions League, but for once it doesn’t matter. They don’t lose any league matches for the rest of the season.

  


Their last fixture is at Anfield. The Kop’s never been louder, not even when they came back from Istanbul with a trophy and Stevie’d shown it of to them like a prized child.

  


It’s like for 90 minutes in time, everyone is holding their breath. And then the whistle blows and Carra sees Stevie collapse on his knees in the grass like a puppet, but he’s laughing and ‘You never walk alone’ rises up from the stands from 40 000 throats like a hymn of heaven.

  


Stevie takes his hand and Stevie’s crying and Stevie’s raising the Premier League trophy high above his head, and everyone is laughing.

  


There’s a medal heavy around his neck and the strap cuts into the soft skin. He doesn’t know how, but he finds himself in front of the Kop, his hands raised high in greeting, and he hears it, his name on their lips, his name carved into this pitch, carved into these hearts with blood and sweat, and his grinding bones.

  


He stands there, with a gold medal around his neck, the man who’s cheated the hand of fate for them, who’s given his everything for them twice over.

  


_‘We all dream of a team of Carraghers, a team of Carraghers, a team of Carraghers!’_

  


Then there’s Stevie, pulling him into a hug and “Carra, Carra, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you crying!” And Carra buries his head into the familiar red of his shoulder, lets his tears soak into the sweat.

  
  


*

  
  


What does a man do, when he’s got the one thing he thought he ever wanted, the one regret that was going to set him free, wrapped around his throat on a string and a golden medal?

  


He’d lifted the Premier League cup and he’d tasted its cold kiss against his lips, but when all was said and done, there was nothing left. It was supposed to give him back his wife and his children, the life that he’d lost, but it hadn’t. It can’t. It’s all been a delusion, a reason to get up in the morning, but there’d been no promises. No magic wands.

  


He’s here. Here, on the pitch in Anfield, with ‘Premier League Champion’ tacked onto his name.

  
  


What does a man do when he loses everything for the second time in his life?

  
  


*

  
  


He gets out of bed two days later and he goes to training.

  
  


*

  
  


This time when Sky Sports comes calling, he doesn’t even hesitate. There’s still something cold and raw and festering between him and Gary, but at least this time they’re on even ground (and David Beckham is safely in LA).

  


It goes off to a bit of a rough start. His punditry skills are rusty and he’s almost glad that Gary’s such a hardass about the displays being perfectly ready, because he’s forgotten how to use them.

  


For the first half hour of recording, Gary won’t speak to Carra. Won’t even look at him. It’s cute, how he thinks that’s going to work now that they’re forced to share a working space.

  


Carra deliberately antagonizes him for the duration of the first tape, up until Gary’s turned red under the make-up and his cool facade finally cracks, because he’s never been able to resist telling Carra exactly how much of an idiot he’s being.

  


It’s better after that.

  
  


*

  
  


They’d been working together for a year, the first time they go for pints after work. There’s this little pub down the street from the BBC studios, and they’re hardly the biggest fish drinking there, so they can sit at one of the corner tables and talk in peace.

  


Well, more like argue, but that’s their usual tone anyway.

  


They lose track of time and the clock ticks steadily to midnight.

  


“I should go,” Gary says, but doesn’t move from his seat.

  


“Your missus waiting for you?” Carra says, more casually than he feels.

  


“What?” Gary frowns. “I’m not married.”

  


Carra stares at him. The information doesn’t add up. The Gary he’d known from before, had been almost exactly like this Gary, down to the low-alcohol tolerance, but he’d also been happily married with kids.

  


“You’re not? A girlfriend then?”

  


Gary shakes his head, still frowning. There’s a beat of silence.

  


“I can’t figure you out,” Gary says, tilting his head to the side. He’s swaying a little in place from the alcohol. “You had me in your lap when I was young and handsome, and you didn’t want me then. What makes you think you have a chance now?”

  


Carra chokes on his mouthful of beer.

  


“Always the mixed signals with you, Carragher. One moment you’re threatening to piss on my bed, and half a second later you’re worried about disturbing my sleep,” Gary says over the sound of Carra’s sputtering. “You push me away when I kiss you, but then you hold me in your arms all night. That isn’t even a good enough plot for a shitty chick-flick!”

  


Carra stares at him, all red-faced and sweaty, dark eyes flashing with a hint of violence, the barely hidden edge of frustration, and is reminded of when they first met, and he’d felt so betrayed when Gary didn’t like him.

  


“I didn’t kiss you back because you weren’t kissing me,” Carra says, before Gary works himself into throwing punches. “You were kissing Beckham, and I didn’t want to be your rebound. I would have settled for being your friend. But I wasn’t the one who stopped calling, Gary.”

  


They’ve gained some attention with Gary’s little outburst, but a few well-honed glares send the onlookers back to their conversation, and their table back into silence.

  


“I’m sorry about that,” Gary mutters. “It just seemed like the best thing to do. I couldn’t face you after that!”

  


Carra sighs and shakes his head.

  


“Forget it,” he says, suddenly exhausted. “It’s in the past now. We should go though. They’ll be calling last round soon.”

  


Gary nods and looks away.

  


They pay and walk out together into the cold London air. Carra’s mistakenly taken his lighter jacket, and London in December is still cold. He pushes his hands into his pockets and hopes his teeth don’t chatter too obviously.

  


“My flat is in this direction,” he says. “I’ll see you next week, right?”

  


“Sure,” Gary says, and he’s still not meeting Carra’s eyes, watching the road instead.

  


Carra shrugs, and starts walking.

  


He’s only walked a street when he hears footsteps behind him and someone calling his name. He turns round and there’s Gary, eyes dark and cheeks flushed, shades of yellow in the light of the streetlight.

  


“What if I kissed you right now?” Gary asks and Carra remembers him at twenty-eight, the taste of Starbusts and salt on his tongue. This Gary is older, with wrinkles round his eyes and in the corners of his lips, his nose a little crooked from all the time times it’s been broken. He’s probably got a map of scars on his knees, on his body.

  


Carra doesn’t care. Carra wants to follow with his fingers and read Gary through them. And he’s past the point of denying himself opportunities he knows he’ll regret.

  


“I wouldn’t be too adverse to that.”

  


He stops being cold after that.

  
  


*

  
  


Carra wakes up to birdsong. It’s pierces through his pounding headache and he blinks open his eyes, trained unseeing at the ceiling. For a long moment, he waits for reality to re-assert itself.

  


Next to him, Gary lets out another snore and burrows deeper into his side. Carra smiles, unclenches the hand that he’s got wound around his waist to run it up his naked back instead, and presses a fond kiss to his hair.

  


It’s a beautiful morning, the sunshine spilling golden through the blinds, and it’s only a matter of time before Gary wakes up fully and starts bustling round with his Weetabix.

  


His elbow is pressing sharply into Carra’s bladder, so he’s going to have to move him in a minute. His knees really ache and the pills are in the kitchen the last time he saw them.

  


For moment in time, golden and quiet, he’s exactly where he belongs.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- so many, all from wikipedia  
> \- Carra has two brothers. He was born in Bootle, Merseyside, which is about 45 minutes walk to Anfield.  
> \- Carra wakes up in 1998, right before his senior squad debut against Middlesbrough away. Liverpool lost that match but it wasn't Carra's fault.  
> \- McManaman is Steve McManaman and he really was that beautiful. Robbie is Robbie Fowler and his eyes are very green. John Barnes is a legendary English player and was captain when Carra came into the team, but he left very soon after, the next transfer window. Roy Evans was the coach then, replaced by Gérard Houllier.  
> \- The date of Carra's debut is exact. He wouldn't score another goal for Liverpool for seven years or so.  
> \- All the offers for Carra are pretty much made up.  
> \- Early on, Carra played pretty much all the backline positions and even defensive mid sometimes, before he finally settled into center-back. He did hate playing full-back though.  
> \- the England call-ups are all a mess don't look at me  
> \- Jamie Redknapp was very protective of the other Liverpool players in the England training camp.  
> \- BT Sports does not show the Argentine league in England and it certainly didn't show it in 1999. Artistic licence!  
> \- Gary Neville is an early sleeper, obsessed with Weetabix cereal and Starburst candy. That's canon for you.  
> \- Denis Irwin was Manchester United's defender from 1990 to 2002. Apparently he was pretty good idk, he makes a good comeback.  
> \- no I don't know Carra's mom's mushroom sauce recipe stop asking me  
> \- David Beckham signed for Real Madrid in July 2003.  
> \- Istanbul is the Champions League final against AC Milan in 2005. Carra played through severe cramps to make several vital interceptions in the second half that allowed the scoreline to stay as it was.  
> \- The 2008/09 season was one of those seasons where Liverpool came very close to winning the Premier League. It all started going downhill after a draw against Everton, where Tim Cahill scored a goal in the 57th minute and later on they suffered an important loss against Middlesbrough that set them back even further (parallels!). Who won it? Manchester United did.  
> \- The team (some of it) that season was Sami Hyppia, Martin Škrtel, Daniel Agger, Alvaro Arbeloa, Andrea Dossena for the backline, Pepe Reina in goal. Then, Xabi Alonso and Stevie were partners in midfield, Javier Mascherano filled in at defensive mid, Lucas Leiva was still a blonde baby, Robbie Keane signed on that summer, Dirk Kuyt never stopped running and Fernando Torres was in the form of his life and I was very in love with him. The others mentioned are Yossi Benayoun, Fabio Aurelio and Patrick Riera.  
> \- "A team of Carraghers," is Carra's song from the Kop  
> \- the MNF thing you know about  
> -why does Gary not get married? I have no idea, maybe he's stuck pining over Carra all the time  
> \- huh that was so long sorry, I hope you liked this fic!


End file.
